


As Forecasted

by Ash_Rabbit



Series: On Cloudy Skies [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon typical eye trauma, Drugs, Gen, I would advise reading the first fic in the series, No beta we die like archival assistants, Notify me if I need to tag something, nothing overtly graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:07:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27556576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ash_Rabbit/pseuds/Ash_Rabbit
Summary: A take on the last five weeks of Elias Bouchard's autonomy.Intended more as a study of butterfly effects in conjunction with the first 5 chapters of 'A Break in the Clouds' but its not like I can't stop you from reading this as an isolated fic.
Series: On Cloudy Skies [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1940623
Comments: 14
Kudos: 78





	As Forecasted

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, hello, this will be an exercise in misery. Do keep that in mind as it gets fairly dark.  
> Also it's 5am, I have no impulse control so- well enjoy doesn't seem quite right  
> Have at my dumpsterfire if you will, where variations on themes and gratuitous literature references run rampant  
> Oh, and the deviations grow the further in you go. I just have opinions on what causes dialogue and behavioural changes.

It’s only Tuesday, but he’s already aching for the soft bliss of a joint. Elias tips his head back, tugging a third cigarette from the crumpled pack; nicotine soothes his frayed nerves, but it also brings the world into a sharp focus that he doesn’t want.

He flicks the wheel, the grooves of the weighty lighter press roughly, a grounding sensation against the cool mists of London. It's a day as dreary and empty as any other, the lighters flame the only spark of life outside of the Institutes oppressive walls. He lights the end and takes a long, slow drag. 

The tension drains from him as smoke floods his lungs, the searing paper eaten down to the filter and nipping at his fingers.

He lets it burn further and feels the dull pain of fresh ash against the uncalloused pads, he lets it drop and pulls out another. 

It’s only Tuesday, but the week has already been so long. 

Two figures breach the emptiness. Both are rail thin, with wisping strands of blonde. The shorter off the duo, the child still has the faintest touches of colour to him. Strawberry tints his downy fluff with much needed warmth, and his nose is stained a ruddy colour. His eyes are a watery blue, like the spattering of rain against pale iris flowers. 

“Missus Delano.” Elias greets, dropping the cigarette and smearing dull tobacco across the pavement. He tips his head at the younger of the pair, “Gerard.” 

“It’s Keay, Bouchard.” Mary Keay sneers, not bothering to break her stride. Her thin lips are drawn as taut as her hair, and near colourless, but never bloodless. 

And then they’re gone as quickly as they appeared, Gerard doesn’t even spare a glance back. A shame, but he can do nothing for him as of yet, and he’d hardly known Eric well enough to say something relevant. Just a little under a year of sporadic partnering before the man had up and quit. Not that they hadn’t managed to get into a fair amount of trouble, their investigations had led to a fair amount of running from various authorities. He should probably be cursing the man for dragging him into Artefact Storage’s and the Archives’ nonsense, but it had been nice, the liveliness of that first year.

Besides, Eric Delano's dead, his case cold. And Mary Keay is as meticulous as she is ruthless.

He checks his pack and sighs, just about finished. The tobacco stained business card sits crumpled and useless. He tosses both into a nearby bin. 

He heads back in and he spots Wright standing at the top of the balcony that overlooks the foyer. Always watching wasn’t he? The man inclines his head, a short greeting nod that Elias responds to with a weak wave. He can still feel the press of Wright’s gaze on him, even after he’s passed into the privacy of his office. 

The day ends like any other, and Elias goes home.

* * *

There’s a new item in Artefact Storage, a new assistant as well. He doubts she’ll stay past a week. 

Her name is something floral, delicate, temporary.

She’s overly friendly, bubbly in that perfect receptionist manner he’d never been able to force. He’s not much in the mood for talking to someone like that, to try and match that energy, to stay invested.

It’s never good to invest in someone so fleeting anyway. No matter how warm and bright her presence is.

He spends the week holed up in his office. 

At the end of the week she transfers out to some administrative role. 

The vindication wars with the pangs of loneliness. But at the end of it all, nothing has changed.

It’s better this way.

* * *

Elias stretches languidly in his chair, not bothering to stifle his yawn in the quiet solitude of Artefact Storage. Another day of nothing.

He brought a book this time _“The Picture of Dorian Gray”._ He's read it before, but there’s no harm in rereading an old favourite. It might help him ignore the actual cursed paintings as well.

It doesn't help.

He thinks about them more, especially about the one in the Archives. Elias sets the book down. 

He could go to the Archives and make a menace of himself, it was better than floating in the abstract nothingness of Storage at least. And he could start on that reference guide. Just in case some terrible fate befalls him, one suitably horrifying and unknowable. 

Yes, he really should make that reference guide.

He slides off the chair and heads towards the Archives, setting his hand on the brass handle, and his shoulders fall. The door's unlocked, Gertrude’s in. Gertrude with her hawk-like gaze that pierces ruthlessly through you in its relentless search for secrets.

He’s hesitating, if he lingers any longer he won’t go in.

He enters, and sees only two assistants, no light spills from Gertrude's window. She must be out.

“Ladies.” Elias greets hands slung in his pockets, Emma Harvey casts him a sour look from behind thick gleaming lenses, and Sarah Carpenter gives a cautious smile.

“Here to slack off again Bouchard?” Harvey sneers as she tucks wisping grey laced with mousy brown behind her ear. 

“Is that any way to talk to a superior?” Elias asks, lips curling in a lazy smile as something black and hateful flickers through Harvey’s eyes.

“Superior to who?” Harvey asks, her pen nearly tearing through the thick stationary as she finishes carving out whatever it was Archives wrote about. “You have no subordinates, none that hang around for longer than a month before transferring out to Research or the Library.” she dots her i’s with a fierce stab, he sympathises with the paper.

“And yet, I’m still a department head.” Elias says with a careless shrug as he leans back against an empty desk. It’s been a while since Harvey’s last torn into him, she’s so very clumsy about it, perhaps she’ll be better this time. 

“A king without a kingdom is what you are,” she stabs her pen in his direction, like a blade threatening to pierce through his armour. “Worthless scum like you won’t be remembered, enjoy your empty title. When you’re gone, no one will care.”

“Emma!” Carpenter snaps, but the chastisement falls short. 

Harvey opens her mouth again, he doesn't want to hear it.

“And what about you?” he asks, quiet, unaffected, flat. How disappointing, he’d really thought she might manage to hit something this time. “You’re getting up there in age, unmarried with no life outside of your job.” surface level, no reaction, just an opening. 

“Nothing seems to make you happy either, so ready to pick apart everyone who doesn’t fit your ideas of what? Brave, useful, and worthy?” her face pinches, lips drawing back like a rabid dog, “Does it make you feel better? Feel useful, worthy even?” Harvey’s just about ready to crack, and he can feel the beginnings of a rush, there’s something to be exploited here. He just needs to find it. “Tearing others down, throwing them under the bus so you don’t have to face your own fail-”

“That’s enough Elias.” Carpenter snaps, grabbing his arm, nails scraping and catching in his threadbare sleeve. The tide recedes, and he’s left cold. It’s for the best. “Elias, if you’re not here for a reason, then leave.”

“Right, of course.” he says, plastering something vaguely friendly across his face as he pushes off from the desk. Something like regret beats beneath his skin, except, he doesn’t regret his words. But he’s disgusted. He’s turning into his parent’s.

No. They were never so cutting, they created and built the insecurities they picked apart. They never found what they hadn't planted, never needed to. He’s turning into something much worse, sharper, more precise. It had felt good, and he hates- hated it. The sparks of loathing have already fizzled out, back into the dull coat of apathy. Was it an inevitability? 

He swallows the thoughts down, for later pinching and prodding. No tearing himself to shreds in front of a vulture like Harvey. Drop your shoulders, tousle your hair, and smile without a single care.

“I came here for statements about artefacts. So many of us meet with a terrible fate you see, and I can’t leave my successor with nothing.” his lips curve wider as Carpenter’s expression does a funny little twist before smoothing into flat neutrality, “If I could request your assistance-” he eyes the mess of folders, hng “-in finding the relevant documents, that would be wonderful.”

“There’s a lot to sift through, can you at least narrow it down?” Carpenter sighs, looking like she’d prefer to do anything but.

“I know you Archives lot don’t come down to Storage that often, but we have a little bit of everything pass through.” Elias shrugs, flipping through his mental rolodex. “Cannibalism, the uncanny valley, I don’t need anything for Leitner's or paintings since they have a lot of overlap,” he’s surprised there hasn’t been news of some cursed art gallery yet, though Salesa seems to be getting there. “anything related to cursed body parts would be great too.”

His gaze trails away from the shelves, there’s a large sheet pinned over the painting of Jonah Magnus. 

Only the Archives could get away with something like that. 

In the Library everyone scurried behind the shelves, working in the claustrophobic nooks if only to avoid the knowing gaze of the founder. Oh, there was always the odd researcher who seemed to be oblivious to it, happily taking up entire tables with their research materials. But Elias wasn’t fond of how the portrait tracked his every move, preferring to slip away to the quiet company of the other filing clerks.

“I think I can manage that.” Carpenter says, skimming another statement, squinting at the notes scrawled on a supplemental paper. “Was the transdimensional smoking pipe true?” 

“Let me see the note.” Elias sighs, peering over Carpenter’s shoulder. It’s his own messy scrawl, a near indecipherable mess that’d taken ages to perfect after years of calligraphy lessons. “Hn, that one’s fake. Just a bad trip.” it’d been disappointing, but he’d happily pocketed it for private use; it’s rather handsome with its dark polished wood and gleaming silver accents. Perhaps he’ll use it tonight, using it always made him feel something like Holmes.

“You would be the expert.” Carpenter remarks dryly, in that dismissive side-eyed manner that was so very common to him these days.

“Thanks for the help.” Elias says with a plastic smile, his fingers press into the stack of papers as the itch begins to sink its teeth into his lungs, clogging them with a bitter tar. Yes, that pipe would most certainly get use tonight.

Elias leaves the chill of the Archives for the copier room. He isn’t writing all of this down, and he’s not in the mood for typing up the statements and their pages of notes for a reference book that few if any will appreciate.

He spends longer in the office then expected, picking through the stack for anything relevant. When he checks the time he can only sigh, 6pm. He doesn't want to go home just yet, so he may as well order in.

He’s not hungry, but he can only let himself slip so far before people look at him a little too closely. 

Elias hesitates, would that be so terrible? The press of eyes makes him feel- not real, but present. He needs a smoke, his head’s too full.

Elias picks through his selection of menus, he’s not in the mood to try something new. 

The thoroughly worn, nearly falling apart at the creases menu would have to do. He’d never say no to Chinese takeaway anyhow. He places his order, it’s the most mouth searing option they have available.

If he’s lucky the pepper will burn away the ennui.

Elias shakes his head, picks up his book and heads upstairs. It would be best to wait outside for the delivery man, and he's getting sick of the silence. Maybe he should bring some CD’s next week.

He pauses in the foyer, and stares down Jonah Magnus. This one not nearly as egregiously bastardly as the Archives portrait, more regal. The curl of his thin lips is proud, self-assured, but mockery lurks in gimlet green eyes. They always said eyes were the window to the soul.

He looks at the book in his hands, and then the portrait.

“Wouldn’t that be something.” he laughs to the empty hall, and lets the shivers travel his spine. “I have a great many quotes for you Mr. Magnus, though perhaps not all flattering. But, you do strike me as the type to appreciate fine literature.”

The eyes seem to follow him as he exits the building, were all of Magnus’ portraits like that? Perhaps they all had the same painter? Doubtful, it's unlikely it would stay a mysterious technique between the Renaissance and the Victorian era.

He plops down onto the steps, cigarette in hand and picks back up from where he was, mourning poor Sibyl Vane as her fate rushes to meet her.

His food comes shortly after, the exchange quick and easy. He heads back in and the portrait bores holes in him with the weight of its gaze. 

He doesn’t appreciate the way it sends his hair standing on end, but it’s a change. A change from feeling like a ghost trapped within his own skin. He knows in part, that it’s a side effect, one can’t handle artefacts too long before something starts to stick. But he'd known what he was getting into, and some days it felt better than the alternative.

Not today though. 

Elias sits beneath the watchful painting and reads aloud between bites of rice and chicken. 

Magnus makes for a highly attentive audience. Maybe it wasn’t the paintings that were haunted, but the building itself. It wasn’t too far-fetched an idea, there was no reason not to believe that Magnus’ bones laid somewhere in the building. Not that body parts tend to mean much to hauntings anyways. Assumedly of course, he doesn’t deal with locations, that's Research’s business.

“ _Sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet indifferent to life itself_ \- how terribly lonely, don’t you think?” Elias asks the painting, thumbing the well worn pages of the last two chapters. 

“I should think that would depend on the man, Elias.” James Wright says, dry voice filling the hall with his presence. “Might I ask why you’re still here?” 

“I was caught up in a project for Artefact Storage, and decided to take a break here.” Elias shrugs, not bothering to pick himself up off the floor. He gestures to the portrait “And since Mr. Magnus here never got the opportunity to read Oscar Wilde himself, I thought his ghost might appreciate some of Wilde’s work.”

“Quite.” Wright says, lips quirking into something that vaguely resembles a smile, as if his face was unused to the motions. His eyes gleam, bright with amusement, about the same shade of the portraits. “And is that the newest assumption? I had thought the popular tale was that the painting in the Archives is cursed.”

“Just mine.” Elias says, studiously ignoring how Wright distributed his weight similarly to the painting's subject, fixating instead on the eye shaped lapel pin. Also common to the portraits. “When you deal with so many paintings that have the uh- the Mona Lisa effect, cursed or not. You tend to get er- good at determining that sort of thing.”

“Your conclusion then?” Wright asks, pinning Elias with his stare. It’s sharp, sharp enough you don’t feel the pain of it; so much so that you’re only aware of how it’s still lodged between your bones. 

He tears his gaze from Wright’s and looks at the books cover, wouldn’t it be something indeed. Best to file that thought away for a later date.

“I like to think that the spirit of the founder favours using his ah- likeness as a means for observation.” Elias says, running his thumb against the pages again. The furl of aged paper was almost a comfort. “I should probably finish wrapping up and get home, I hadn’t even noticed it had gotten so late.” Elias laughs, but there’s no feeling to it.

“No reason to leave our ghost hanging, you only have two chapters left after all.” Wright says with a wave of his hand, it's so very pale, near ghostly with the veins thick and bruise like. “If you would be so kind as to indulge an old man, that is.”

“Ah- sure, it’s only a couple pages anyways I suppose.” Elias agrees, plucking awkwardly at his book. Just about twenty pages left, hardly anything. Though the weight of their eyes is getting a bit much, he just needs to dull it somehow, just enough to not stammer and draw this out longer than necessary. “Can I interest you in a fortune cookie?” 

Stupid, why would the man want a cheap, greasy-

“But of course.” Wright says, immediately busying himself with fetching himself a cookie. Good to know the man could be distracted via sweets. And the feeling of being watched lessens as Wright busies himself with the treat.

He picks back up from where he left off, ears ringing with the echoing sound of fortune becoming crushed between Wright’s teeth. That doesn’t sound quite right- but if he focuses on that he’s going to lose his place, and then he’ll have to start from the top of the page, and he’s not having that.

The story winds to a close, and he shuts the book with a soft exhale.

“I should hope you won’t go around destroying any paintings, cursed or otherwise after this.” Wright says, leaning in the most casual position Elias has ever seen him adopt. It's not sloppy by any means, just odd to watch the man casually press his weight against the banister, elbow balanced on the rail. As if he's posing for a painting.

“Ha, no. I’ll leave that for the Archives.” Elias says, fishing out a fortune cookie. He doesn’t want to continue looking at the other man.

“Gertrude is rather extreme isn’t she?” Wright muses, “But she’s unfortunately efficient.”

Elias shrugs as he cracks open his cookie, and withdraws the slip of paper. He’d hardly call the state of the Archives efficient, but considering Gertrude's penchant for burning things, he can only imagine how many times the woman has threatened to set fire to her department.

“The possibility of a career change is near.” Elias huffs, gaze darting towards his boss. “Is there something I should know Mr. Wright?” 

“I should think that I’m the one who should be concerned.” Wright says, eyes shining with humour. “It sounds to me as if I should keep an eye out for your future ambitions.”

Elias can’t help the puff of laughter that escapes him as he pushes himself to his feet. It’s been a while, it sounds nothing like the one in his memories. 

“Not on your life Mr. Wright, I can’t imagine having to regularly deal with the Fairchild’s and Lukas’.” the holiday parties are more than enough.

“I’m sure you would make for an exemplary host.” Wright says clapping his shoulder, a soft fondness etched across his features. It feels like it should be paternal, but Elias has never been blessed with that familiar sort of approval, it weighs heavy with expectation. He shivers regardless, and grains of long dusted away sand rub against his heart, abrasive in the painful craving for more. 

It’s washed away in an instant. “Speaking of, Peter Lukas will be by in the next two weeks, Artefact Storage’s request for more funding caught his eye so to speak. So do be prepared.” his gaze trails over Elias’ thoroughly crumpled and stained work clothes with thinly veiled disdain. Tension drains, this is familiar, he understands and knows how to handle disapproval.

“Right, of course.” Elias says with a short nod, and quickly dismisses himself, slipping the broken halves of fortune between his teeth. The crunch blocks out the low buzz of white noise that always seems to be present, and he can almost taste the cookies sweetness.

He doesn’t go back to work, not with the threat of Peter Lukas looming on the horizon. 

He goes home, pulls out his pipe, and smokes long into the night.

* * *

Elias sighs as he spins in his office chair -wheeled out into the main room, if only for a change of scenery- watching the overhead lights blur into dissonant circles. His spin slows and he catches sight of something that doesn’t belong in his Storage.

“Shelley for the love of god, please tell me that isn’t a cat.”

Michael Shelley freezes, light reflecting off oversized coke bottle lenses, large spindly hands cradle a dark bundle of fluff to his chest, as his messy blond waves fail to act as a curtain. “Why would there be a cat in the Magnus Institute?” Shelley laughs, the pitch breathy and the rhythm grating. 

“You’re not hiding it here are you?” Elias asks. Artefact Storage was hardly the place for a cat, and he can’t be bothered to watch it. Something would inevitably go wrong, and he doesn’t want to deal with the fallout.

“Would you believe me if I said I got lost on my way to the Archives?” Shelley asks, sheepish.

“How do you still work with Gerty?” Elias asks, pushing at the table next to him with enough force to send him spinning again.

“I can’t leave her all alone outside, it’s raining.” Shelley pleads, and Elias refuses to look at him and his sad eyes. “It’s not like Artefact Storage is actually dangerous anyways, could you just watch her until the end of the day? I’ll owe you one.” Elias bristles, hunkering further into his chair at Shelley’s dismissiveness, how someone in the Archives could be that _blind_ was beyond him. 

“Absolutely not.” Elias says, cold and final. He can practically hear Shelley’s expression collapsing, and he shoves away the pang of guilt. “Now get going before Gert-”

The door flies open. He pushes off the table again, maybe if he gets dizzy enough he can justify calling off sick or something. Not that he really has anyone to convince, but it’s the principle of the matter.

“I needed you back five minutes ago Michael.” Gertrude says, walking in like she owns the place, pale grey flashing behind half-moon frames. “And here you are fraternizing with Bouchard, of all-” he watches her lip curl as the chair's spin slows once more, the kitten’s strutting down the handling table. “Do you have no sense of propriety?” 

“It’s great to see you too Gerty.” Elias says with a lazy smile, he thinks it’s a smile, the spinning's starting to get to him. “Have you ever thought about taking a step back and letting things just spin out? You’re looking a little tense.”

“Let’s go Michael.” Gertrude says, ignoring him as she sweeps back to the door, assistant in tow as low practical heels click dangerously against stupidly wooden floors. “Such a waste.” echoes quietly back to him as the thick wooden door thuds audibly back into the frame.

“That was stupid.” he sighs to his office, but its better this way. Shelley is a fool, blind to the dangerous reality he's submitted himself to.

There's no future for a man like that, nothing good can come from attaching yourself to a tragedy in the making.

He takes his faded green throw from off the back of his chair and wraps himself in it, he's so very cold and he wants nothing more than to smoke. His case is right there, and he’s fairly sure there was a bong submitted recently.

He digs it up and takes it to his office; cursed or not, it's been a long month.

* * *

The phone is ringing. Never a good sign.

People don’t call him, they waltz in and demand his immediate aid, as if there's nothing else he exists for. Which, while true, is still rude. But that’s not the point. The point is, his phone is ringing and he can think of maybe four people it could be, and two on who it actually is.

It was possibly his parents, who’ve finally realised his home phone will never be used, and have decided to grace his work hours with their oh so loving opinions and concerns. Or it’s Salesa with some cursed object or what have you.

The phone rings again, and he’s in no mood to pick it up. He lets it go to voicemail, and listens to the quiet whir of tape, not taking in much else. With the spark of tired bitterness gone, he’s cold. The office was always so much colder than the rest of the Institute.

Elias steps out of his office, a book in hand, and wheels the staircase ladder away from the ‘Depression Inducers’, he’s already drowning in enough dissonant emptiness as it is.

He wheels the steps towards the Leitner’s, and settles in on the top step. The book he has isn’t from Jurgen Leitner’s Library, just a perfectly normal collection of Edgar Allen Poe’s short stories. ‘ _The Cask of Amontillado’_ is his favourite, though _‘The Tell-Tale Heart’_ comes a close second. 

He should try something more optimistic next time. Getting lost in others misery has stopped taking the edge off his own. Perhaps something nostalgic? It would be nice, perhaps, to chase after that forgotten warmth.

Someone, Peter Lukas, clears their throat. It’s not the first time, but Elias can hope the man will disappear if he ignores him long enough. 

Elias flips the page. Though his eyes can no longer focus on the words. It doesn’t matter, he knows Fortunado’s tale well. He sighs, and time slows to a crawl.

“Elias, do you have a moment?” Lukas asks, all pleasant tones laced with thick irritation. Elias turns, looking down at the giant of a man. Hng big, he forgot how stupidly large the man is. Probably wouldn’t even get properly crushed if he sent the Leitner shelf crashing down on him. A shame really, but he could get lucky if Lukas accidentally read a couple pages. Was the man literate? 

No, too obvious. And he’d rather not have the Lukas family bearing down on him afterwards either. He tucks away the thought for later perusal.

“Hello Peter,” Elias says dully, “I’m rather busy as you can see, and access to this department is restricted to scheduled appointments.” not that anyone actually did so, but it’s department policy. 

“I was informed that there was an opening by James.” Lukas smiles, it’s an unpleasant thin lipped thing that compels Elias to topple the shelf. But, he’d have to dispose of the body, and there would be an investigation, and that was always a hassle. “I’ve been told that Artefact Storage is requesting more funding, and as you know, my family is one of the Institute’s primary backers. So I was hoping we could discuss what these extra funds would go to.”

“This is our Leitner shelf, would you like to see how unstable it is?” Elias asks, wrapping a hand around the top of the shelf, just a little push and it would sway, a proper jostle and it would collapse altogether. 

“That’s quite alright.” Lukas says, face milk pale as his fog coloured eyes roll over the disaster shelf, before checking his wrist. “Though we could discuss this properly over a meal, I’d say your shift is just about done.” Elias swallows back the bile that’s forcing its way up in a violent gut twist of acidic disgust.

“Is that so.” he says, picking at the lint on his sleeve. He has no excuses to give. Nothing he says will have any effect on Lukas anyway, but, “I’m afraid I don’t have much of an appetite though.”

He flicks the bundle of fluff and cat hair off his fingers. He’s not sure he’s fond of the grey, every little dark fluff seemed to show, and he was still finding cat hair everywhere.

Lukas perks up- never a good sign -stroking the short hairs of his beard, as if it would make him look dignified. “If you’re uncomfortable, we could dine on _the Tundra,_ my men will know better than to disturb me. And it's better than a lonely night in, wouldn’t you say?”

What he’d like to say is ‘I’d rather read a Leitner, thanks.’ but that’s unlikely to end well. What Elias says instead is “Sure.” there’s no point putting it off, and the ship will be no different from a restaurant. As he climbs down the steps, he tries to ignore the way Lukas looms almost a full foot taller than him.

“Shall we?” Lukas asks, offering up his right arm like this was some sort of date. Elias ignores him, he has no need or want for Lukas' false warmth. He smoothes the invisible creases, wool doesn’t crease, not really, especially one purchased by a Lukas. He slides his left hand into his pocket, and walks to the door, casting the other a pointed look

“How cold Elias, I’m starting to think you’re only here for my wallet.” Lukas says opening the door to some bland silver car, gesturing for him to climb into the backseat. The interior is black leather, cold and unyielding, the chauffeur doesn’t acknowledge them. He expected nothing less from someone employed by the Lukas family.

“And why would you think that?” Elias asks, already tuning out the stream of words. He fixates on the headrest, noting the fine threads of stress that run across the leather despite the tension, and the straining threads of black that hold the piece together.

He can’t focus, his thread count slipping with the ever-present feeling of Lukas’ knee pressing against his. He could tuck his limbs closer, but that feels like a loss, everything feels like a loss at this point. Was human contact always this dreadful? He can’t remember the last time he was pressed so close to someone, the Tube not counting of course. Nothing human in the press of a hundred humans packed tightly. Nothing human about this either, like if mist was given solid form. He hates it.

Dinner is uncomfortable, the rocking of the ship cuts away what little appetite Elias had. And so, he finds himself sipping away at a truly awful wine, it's salty. Lukas hasn’t even touched his own glass since his initial taste, hardly a mouthful, his glass looking as full as when the bottle had been poured.

Lukas’ self absorbed rambles of ocean’s, loneliness and whatever else men like him enjoy washes over him like seafoam, a flurry of white noise that quickly dissipates on impact.

It’s Lukas propositioning him that yanks him from his fugue, cold horror immediately sends the disquiet and sickness into overwhelming nausea. The words don’t connect, bouncing soundlessly against his skull; but the intent rolls off Lukas like fog across the moor, thick, cloying, and inescapable.

He scrambles to the rails, limbs clumsy as white wine climbs up his throat, tasting far worse than going down. His mouth tastes acrid, his head's spinning, and he doesn’t know up from down; all he knows is, if Peter Lukas doesn’t unhand him in this instant, he will pitch himself into the choppy waters below and happily drown.

Happily? Would it make him happy? The spite would be nice, but would it be euphoric? 

The ship rocks fiercely, or maybe its head, but he doesn’t let go of the rails. He feels disgusting, and his stomach is still trying to crawl up his esophagus. It’s very unsexy of him, he hopes the other man is repulsed as another string of phlegmy bile spirals down to the waves below.

Lukas says something to him, but Elias can’t hear anything past the pounding in his ears.

But he spits “No.” anyway. 

Once the sickness passes he’ll be fine. 

Lukas doesn’t seem to agree, a large hand settling along Elias’ lower back, too low. He cringes, it’s too much, he can feel the nausea make a sharp return. He tries to slap the offending limb away, but his arm is too slow and he misses.

Something is wrong. 

He needs to get home.

The hand returns, a condescending pet at the nape of his neck. Ready to scruff him like some animal.

“I’m fine.” Elias snarls- tries to snarl, tongue thick and heavy as the other man presses too close. 

He tries to reach for his keys, but his limbs are leaden, and his hand flops uselessly against the lip of the pocket. The pieces slot neatly into place.

Fuck. 

“You drugged me.” the words slur together, and Peter Lukas smiles as he presses another glass to his lips. He shuts his mouth and seals his lips, but it means little when his jaw is so slack that a light squeeze pries his mouth open and salt floods his mouth.

He can’t recall the precise name of the drug, not that it matters with the black spots swallowing him whole.

* * *

Elias wakes, and wishes he hadn’t.

The first thing he notices is the chill, it’s cold. The air, the slab he’s apparently strapped to, and the weight in his chest. 

He should have known Peter Lukas was a serial killer, why else would his family pay him to do nothing at sea for most of the year.

The second thing he notices is that he can’t close his eyes, they’re pried open as hundreds of eyes peer down from the stained glass ceiling, he can feel each individual gaze in every raised hair on his body. It’s church-like. Voyeuristic.

He’s never felt so exposed.

A whine builds in his throat, but he can’t bear to release it, so he holds it there, straining to burst free.

Third, there are footsteps, the distinctive sound of expensive oxfords slapping against stone. It’s not just Peter Lukas then. No heavy boots, was the man even present? Elias hopes not, that would somehow make everything worse in this already terrible situation.

But the steps are familiar in their gait, a confident stride, uncaring of others in its ferocity. Decisive and forward. 

The whine escapes, soft and slow. A drawn out whisper of misery as he gathers the powdered glass of his scattered wits, useless burning shards that pour through his fractured shell.

“If you could skip the small death and head straight to the literal one, that would be great.” Elias says, his voice unbearably high, fear coating every syllable and emphasising his every quaver. Weak, a mistake, he’s only exposed himself further. 

“Excellent, you’re finally awake. I was afraid Peter had overdone the dosage.” James Wright says, as if this was nothing more than a budget meeting as he wields the odd metal tool in his hands like an overly expensive fountain pen. It’s got a large loop, and reminds him a bit of a can opener. Elias can’t even bring himself to feel surprised, though his lungs constrict. It shouldn’t feel like betrayal, there was nothing outside of their professional relationship but-

The man’s immaculately dressed as per usual. Confident in his capabilities then, at least his death will be clean. “I’ll have to ask you to keep quiet for expediency's sake, you understand of course.”

Elias doesn’t understand, not fully, but he can sense a villainous monologue. Wonderful.

He should’ve drowned himself when he had the chance. Better yet, he should have just killed Peter Lukas and disappeared.

He looks back to the ceiling and sighs. 

“What cult is this?” Elias asks, forcing every ounce of indifference that he can muster into his voice. Which is just enough to pitch him to reedy nervousness. “Just curious if I’ve heard of it is all.” 

“I was getting there Elias. I would have thought you would appreciate a good story, the build up and the twists.”

“Oh, I think I can hazard a guess.” Elias snaps, voice thankfully steadier, though still ringed by tremors. His gaze darts around for anything that can help, no tools within reach, and his limbs are still distant from his brain. No better than if he were a doll. 

His eye catches on a well-dressed corpse that sat in an equally ancient chair. The suit is an old cut, before this century at least if the dull velveteen sheen of the coat and the yellowed lace at its neck are anything to go off of. Victorian at the very least. 

Nothing resides in its eye sockets, a soulless husk through and through. Elias doubts it because they rotted away. His own eyes burn at the terrible sight. It’s hideous, the deep valleys of dry wrinkled skin, the endless darkness he can see within the caverns of the skull, the gnarled fingers that are knobbled and clawed. Clumps of dead hair cling pathetically to the scalp, in matted wires of dingy grey.

Old and terrible, and obscene in its humanity.

“Not a portrait.” he says, a burst of panic cuts through him, and a manic giggle escapes. “Just as hideous an effigy though.”

His head snaps to the side, the aftershocks of pain spread across his cheek. Elias’ breath rattles as the world centers. Pain bringing things back into sharp focus. 

“I should thank you for saving me the trouble,” Wri- Magnus, it has to be Magnus. Anything else would be horrifically disappointing. The fear wars with the need to know, the need for confirmation. He clings to the drifting threads of curiosity, an anchor to stop the tide of terror from dragging him back under.

But as his lips form the words, his tongue lays as dead as he soon will be.

“It will be like a homecoming, skin colour notwithstanding of course,” his hands are soft and frigid, like a bloated corpses as they stroke his face, nails scraping down his cheek. “I will enjoy wearing you, and it’s better this way, don’t you think?” Elias' breath hitches.

The nails dig as his head is sharply tilted upwards, “The worst form of existence is one subsumed by ennui, is it not? And you’re drowning in it Elias.” the loop is pressed cold and firm against the edges of his splayed eye.

He can't breathe. His mind blanks. Their faces are too close. He can see his terror reflected in the backs of empty green.

“Is it truly preferable to fear? To being known?” manicured nails run along the edge of his other eye, the caress mockingly gentle, as his world shrinks to a pinprick. “You could have been something great.”

Fury bleeds through the fear, hot and raging and familiar; Elias hocks a glob of spit, watches it spatter gleefully beneath glacial eyes.

His satisfaction is short-lived.

Magnus’ hand _twists_ , and Elias _screams._

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I've been thinking about this since I started 'A Break in the Clouds' (ABCs(?)) and it's been plaguing me tenfold ever since I finished chapter 5. I'm working on ABCs chapter 6 now.
> 
> Second note, I'll advise against looking up enucleation (eye removal of the fully intact kind), they're vague about tool names and prefer showing removed eyes and empty sockets. Didn't have the time to watch the videos they provided either, but I doubt a clinical step by step is relevant to anyone but me. Long story short knives are a no because eyes are too squishy, and Jonah strikes me as a trophy collector. The spoons are used for eradication which destroys the eye.
> 
> Third note, if there's any book that screams Jonah Magnus, it's 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'. For elaborations or debate I have a Tumblr, [Ash-Rabbit](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ash-rabbit) feel free to send asks and what not. 
> 
> Fourth note, the drug is a date rape known as Gamma Hydroxyburate- odourless, colourless and commonly placed in alcoholic drinks. It has a salty or citrusy taste, and a slew of side effects that I wanted for this. 
> 
> Fifth note, my google history is now incredibly suspicious, well more so then usual.
> 
> Note the sixth, If I need to tag anything let me know. This waffles as dark to me due to the nature of the source material, but we all have different measures.
> 
> Note the seventh, on Elias' characterization; I like to think small acts of kindness can have larger affects then anticipated. 
> 
> Note the last, a month from now there will likely be extensive editing. But I hate looking at this right now and constructive feedback is always welcome.


End file.
